


Government Affiliated Love Affairs

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arranged Marriage, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, he and al vibe anyway, race says: fuck the government
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25236757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: The government decided they were going to play matchmaker. Race and his match don't quite get along. Until they do.
Relationships: Albert DaSilva/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 5
Kudos: 32





	Government Affiliated Love Affairs

**Author's Note:**

> another one i found on tumblr and thought: why not  
> enjoy these dumbasses

“Well, this is stupid.”

“Yeah, tell me about it, pal.”

Race sighs, looking down at his hands as he fiddles with the cup sleeve of his grande americano. 

It was common knowledge that the “Formulated Love Act of 2023” was not the most foolproof of laws passed by the government in the past 5 years (not that anything the government did anymore was foolproof, but he’ll digress), but Race couldn’t help but at least appreciate that it wasn’t trying to push any heteronormative bullshit. 

That didn’t make this asshole any more bearable.

Granted, the notion of solving the ‘loneliness epidemic’ (which apparently was a thing and was causing the US enough damn trouble that the government fucking stepped in) through means of systematic soulmates was sweet. Everyone gets a match based off a stupid fucking questionnaire they completed when they were 21, like “oh, you can drink now! Here’s a shot of vodka and also your future partner is gonna be determined by this thick ass packet, go ahead and fill that out, no pressure!” And by the time you’re 25, a soulmate’s been hand picked for you. By law, you’re required to marry them within a year of meeting, and then you’re set to live your life happily ever after. 

It was nice in theory. But in practice? Not so much.

Then again, wasn’t the government usually like that?

Race wished he had some whiskey to pour into his americano like those edgy movie characters. Or Jack Kelly. Jack Kelly did that sometimes.

When he’d gotten the email a week ago with his soulmate’s information and their established ‘meet-up arrangements’- which were really just fancy words for ‘forced date, have fun’- Race had been tentatively hopeful that maybe he’d be one of the rare cases. The ones you read about on Buzzfeed where it really is love and first sight and maybe those few, poor FBI Agents who were stuck with the ‘Pairing Process’ had done something right for once. 

The ounce of a Disney fan within him had even entertained the thought of some miraculous meeting, where sparks fly and eyelashes are batted and smiles are exchanged.

But no. Instead, Race is sitting at some random Starbucks in the middle of Manhattan with an obnoxious (and upsettingly pretty) redhead, who’s first words to him were, “I fucking hate coffee, I’m gonna get tea.” To which Race had tried to cover his scowl, but failed miserably.

He hates tea snobs. Don’t get him wrong, he enjoys tea as much as the next 25 year old guy, but those dudes who fucking _made a point_ to openly despise coffee in favor of tea like some sort of pompous jerk? Yeah, they kill his boner.

Race toys around with his coffee cup for another moment, before the silence gets too thick and he breaks, “Albert, right?” he asks, because even though it’s been a good half hour since they’d met up, the guy still hasn’t properly introduced himself. 

It had said Albert’s name and age in the email last Saturday, but come on. It’s basic human decency to at least offer your name and maybe a handshake.

Albert scrunches his nose, taking a long sip from his iced peach green tea lemonade. Fucking asshole.

“Yeah,” He says. He sounds bitter and uninviting. Race tries not to shrink in his seat, “And you’re Antonio.”

“Race,” Race interjects.

Albert’s eyebrows draw together, “Race? What the fuck kinda-”

“It’s a nickname, just-” Race scrubs a hand down his face, “Just, don’t question it, but it’s Race, got it?”

Albert leers at him, “Fine.”

The silence settles over them once more, except this time, they’re maintaining eye contact. Albert looks like he’s trying to size him up and Race’s neck prickles uncomfortably.

C'mon, seriously, _this_ is the guy Race has to marry? Yippee fucking ki yay.

“Listen,” Race says slowly, “This- I mean,” he blows out a breath, starting over, “I hate to break it to you, but we’re stuck together and you’ve gotta move in by,” he pauses, checking the date on his phone, “Wednesday, so we could either work something out or suffer.”

Albert’s glare doesn’t falter, “I’ll suffer.”

Race sighs again.

XXX

“And down the hall here is my room and that,” Race gestures to the door opposite his room, Albert trailing behind him, “Is yours.”

After their disaster of a first date last Saturday, Race had relented and cleaned out his office, turning it into a guest room and moving his desk and file cabinets into his own room. It was a tight squeeze into his relatively small space, but he wasn’t about to share a room with Albert. But he's a nice person and isn’t going to condemn him to the couch, either. So, guest room it is.

Albert hefts his box of belongings higher into his arms, shrugging his right shoulder to adjust the duffle bag on his back before inching into his room.

“Thanks, I guess,” He calls bluntly behind him before kicking the door closed, leaving Race standing dumbly on the other end.

Race blinks. Then, blinks again.

“Man, fuck you!” He calls in a sudden surge of anger. He hadn’t done a damn thing to Albert, what fucking right did he have to hate him? He didn’t even give him a chance!

“Nah.” Albert calls back.

“I didn’t mean it like that you fucking ass- you know what? Nevermind.” He storms into his own room, slamming the door shut behind him.

XXX

Later that night, Race is curled up in front of the TV, cradling a bowl of Panang curry and watching some random documentary about koalas. He spoons some fried tofu into his mouth, frontwardly considering getting a koala, because they’re fucking adorable, and distantly wondering if Albert was ever going to come out of his room. 

He hadn’t heard from him all afternoon and the only indication that he was still in the house had been the distinct sound of a toe being stubbed, followed by a loud, ‘fuck me!’, which Race didn’t laugh at. _He didn’t._

His question is answered a moment later when Albert’s door creaks open down the hall and he pads into the living room. Race can feel him lingering in the doorway, watching him, and he groans a little, placing his spoon back into his bowl and muting the television.

“What,” he says, turning to face Albert, who looks sheepish for a moment before replacing the scowl on his face.

“Nothing, just-” he purses his lips and glances towards the kitchen.

Race softens a little, “Are you hungry? I didn’t know your order, but I got you some pad thai,  
‘cause it’s pretty standard…it’s in the fridge if you want it.”

Albert looks back at him, a strange look on his face, “You got me something?”

Race shrugs, “yeah?”

“Even after I-” Albert shakes his head, “Thanks.” 

Race watches as he seems to go through some internal conflict before stalking off towards the kitchen. A moment later, the microwave starts up. 

“Alrighty,” Race mumbles to himself, unmuting the television and picking his spoon back up. 

A couple more minutes pass with the remote sounds of Albert putzing around in the kitchen and the narrator’s accented voice droning on. It feels weird to have someone else in the house, but Race shrugs it off. He's never loved having roommates, but it's no different than his college days, really. Even though he can't just forget Albert after the year was over. He has to marry the damn guy.

He’s surprised when Albert comes back into the living room and even more shocked when the other end of the couch dips. Glancing over, he finds Albert sitting with his legs tucked underneath him, twirling rice noodles around his fork and staring fixedly at the TV. He forces himself to relax and finish his curry.

They don’t say anything and eventually, Race lets his guard down a little. An indiscernible amount of time passes and the program turns to a show about domesticated hedgehogs and how to care for them. 

Race feels himself nodding off, and he’s about to let sleep take him over completely when he feels his bowl being lifted out of his hands. He cracks open an eye in time to see Albert get up and clear their dishes.

He comes back a moment later and looks mildly startled to see Race awake.

“I thought you were out out,” he says, and Race notes that the hostility that’s been ever present since they met is curiously absent.

“I woke up when you took our stuff,” Race admits.

Albert hums and sits back down on the couch, clicking off the TV and bracing his forearms on his knees. He looks like he might want to say something, so Race waits patiently.

“Look,” Albert starts, sounding a little strained, “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting. I’m not trying to justify my behavior, but this whole,” he gestures a little wildly, “soulmate thing freaks me out and I kinda panicked over it and totally took it out on you even though it’s not in any way your fault and,” he lets out a humorless chuckle, finally looking at Race, “I’m sorry. Really.”

Race offers him a tired, but reassuring smile, “Listen, bud, I’m like half asleep so only, like, a fraction of this conversation is getting comprehended, but it’s okay. I mean, you were an asshole, but I get it. This whole system is fucked.”

Albert laughs for real and Race finds that he likes it. Just a little. He can appreciate a nice laugh, okay?

“Sure is,” Albert agrees.

There’s a pause, but it’s not as charged as before.

“Where did the nickname ‘Race’ come from?”

“Uhhh,” Race yawns, stretching, “I dunno, my little sister always called me that and it stuck?”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

Race props his head up on his hand, sleepily watching Albert fidget. Albert seems to sense him staring, because he looks at him again, offering a small smile.

“You’re tired,” he points out uselessly, “you should sleep.”

Race nods, standing, “Yeah, I think I’m gonna,” he starts towards his room, “You should, too.”

Albert salutes him, “I will.”

“Goodnight, Al.”

“‘Night, Race.”

XXX

After their little impromptu apology session, things change between Race and Albert.

They hang out more, heading into the city to browse through museums and stroll aimlessly through Central Park. Albert brings Race to a planetarium and Race, in turn, takes him to an ABT performance at Lincoln Center. It’s nice, Race finds, and his initial opinion of Albert is rapidly changing into something entirely different and ten times more positive.

He discovers that Albert’s favorite ice cream flavor is stracciatella, even though it’s hard to find in the States. Albert tells him that he graduated from Pratt with a film degree and dreams to one day participate in the Sundance Film Festival.

In turn, Race confesses that even though he grew up dancing and always thought he’d be a professional dancer, culinary school had ended up being his calling. 

Little things about Albert start to filter into Race’s awareness. Like the way he quirks one side of his mouth a little higher than the other when he laughs, or how he scrunches his nose a little and furrows his eyebrows when he’s filming. He’s got that kind of charming, self-deprecating humor, where he’s always cracking jokes, but only at his own expense, making him approachable and likable. When he’s telling stories, his voice always pitches a little different, captivating whoever’s listening. But when someone else is talking, he gives his full, unwavering attention. 

It makes Race feel interesting and important. Like what he has to say matters.

It’s a sunny Friday and the two of them are sitting in a small sandwich shop in Brooklyn. Albert is retelling some ridiculous story about how he got a cab driver to bring him to a veterinarian for free, because he found an injured pigeon. His meatball sub is long since forgotten and Race notices that he has a little sauce on his cheek.

He’s just about to reach out to wipe it off when he realizes it.

He’s kind of in love with Albert Dasilva.

Huh. Crazy.

XXX

“Hey, so I was thinking we could go try out that new bubble tea place over on 14th?”

Race lifts his head from his pillow, blinking blearily at where Albert’s leaning against his doorframe. It’s Saturday and they’d spent the night previous in some club getting spectacularly drunk and naturally, Race is hungover as shit. But Albert doesn’t get hungover, the motherfucker.

He scrubs a hand down his face and Albert watches with a smirk as he struggles to sit up.

“Yeah,” Race says, “Yeah, I’m down, just,” he rolls his stiff neck, wincing as it cracks, “gimme a few minutes to freshen up.”

“No prob,” Albert says, sidling out of the room, “We can grab a greasy breakfast for you somewhere as well!”

“You’re a saint!” Race calls back.

A half hour later, they’re bumping shoulders as they venture through The Village, keeping an eye on Albert’s google maps as they look for ‘Bubbleology’, the new fangled cafe Jack and Katherine had been insisting they try.

“So, the Air and Space Museum in DC is having an exhibit on Mars next weekend and I was thinking we could pop down to see it?” 

Albert perks up, looking away from his phone to give Race an excited smile, “Really? Wait, how did you know about that and I didn’t?”

Race blushes a little, shoving his hands in his pockets, “It’s your birthday coming up, so I was looking for things to do and...yeah.”

“Aww,” Albert nudges him, but Race can see him flush, “That’s sweet, I’d love to- _shit, Race, careful!_ ”

Race gasps, freezing as a car speeds towards him. The only unfrozen part of his mind is screaming that _the crosswalk says they can walk, so why isn’t that car fucking stopping and-_

He feels a hand grip his bicep, yanking him back towards the sidewalk and all cognition slams back into him as he and Albert fall onto the pavement.

“-Fucking ASSHOLE, watch it!” Albert’s screaming uselessly after the car, but Race isn’t registering it. Not completely anyway.

He takes a moment to assess himself, breathing deeply as he becomes increasingly aware that he _almost fucking died, but he didn’t thanks to Albert._

Albert looks down when Race tugs on his sleeve, “Are you okay? Jesus, that was- mmph.”

Race pulls him down, crashing their lips together. For a moment, Albert’s frozen against him, then he relaxes into the kiss, reaching up a hand to cradle Race’s jaw. They kiss for a while, until Race remembers that they’re quite literally sitting in the middle of a sidewalk and pulls away. 

Albert opens his eyes, looking slightly dazed, “Whoa.”

Race bites his lip, suddenly unsure, “Sorry?”

“No,” Albert’s eyes widen, “No, don’t apologize, that- no, that was okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Albert says, hoisting Race to his feet and pulling him in for another kiss, “Very okay.”

When they break apart again, they’re both laughing, foreheads resting against one another's.

“Hey,” Race whispers, waiting until Albert’s eyes meet his to continue, “I like you.”

Albert rolls his eyes, but it’s fond, “I like you, too, dumbass. Maybe those FBI guys actually were onto something.”

Race smiles, goofy and genuine, “Yeah, maybe.”

They stand there for another moment, enjoying each other’s embrace. Then, Albert steps away abruptly, grabbing Race’s hand and pulling him down the street.

“C’mon, I still want bubble tea.”

It’s Race’s turn to roll his eyes, “Idiot.”

“Yeah, butcha love me.”

“You got me there.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs!  
> feedback is always appreciated


End file.
